


Sole Cover

by freckleslikeconstellations



Series: James Bond [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: 00 Reader, Angst, Car Chase, Death, Established Relationship, F/M, Flirting, Friendship, Hotel, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, Murder, New York, Post-Skyfall, Reunion, Robot, Romance, Sexual References, Spies, Violence, Weapons, affair, agent reader, before Spectre, martini, pink champagne, reference to CIA, reference to Japan, reference to London, references to MI6, threat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:46:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26458924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/pseuds/freckleslikeconstellations
Summary: You need to kill your husband, before he can kill you, even if it means going against those in the job that you have, but James Bond isn't about to let you do this on your own.
Relationships: James Bond/Reader, James Bond/You, james bond/female reader
Series: James Bond [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1964749
Comments: 2
Kudos: 72





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy this! Please tell me what you think if you can.

With a growing sigh building inside you, you turn away from the window in the room that you are staying in, which belongs to a small, up-market hotel in New York and towards the full-length mirror that is stood a little removed from the robin egg blue walls. As you fix a stud earring into place the pure white covers of the bed are in the corner of your eye. Truth be told the covers are a little _too_ white for you…but it is not as if there had been anything _more_ inspiring to look at outside the window or anything to take your mind off what is to come that night, only the dying light of day slowly bordering the tall buildings opposite and casting everything in its shadow. 

You have lost a bit of weight. You notice such a thing more easily since it is the first time that you have dressed up since you nearly died. The navy dress with its white collar almost _hangs_ off of you in fact, but at least you look sleek if nothing else, your loose h/c hair only _adding_ to the picture. 

You have been taking your meals in your room mostly and scoping out the situation when things have been quieter. You know enough about your husband’s affair to feel _safe_ in the knowledge that he should be preoccupied at this hour. In any case, since tonight is the night that you will be _dealing_ with him, you are in need of a drink and a better one at that than what’s left in your mini bar in the hotel room. You push your feet into dark heels, take a bit of a breath, pick up your room card, clutch purse and leave the room. 

When you enter the dining hall with its round tables draped in white tablecloths and black and blue coloured chairs that are only _half_ -occupied that evening you notice a problem straight away and your stomach curls into an additional knot because of it, but you try and keep your breathing smooth and a fixed, polite smile in place, acting unfazed as icy blue eyes flick up from the blonde their owner has been conversing with. The eyes contract with something. Your heart pumps in response to his stare and all you notice is _that._ You forget how seriously that he must have been looking at the other woman. You head to the silver bar that is on the side of the place-your hips swaying automatically as you do such a thing-but if you hadn’t felt like eating before then you feel even _less_ like eating now. 

You slide onto a dark bar stool. The bar man comes to you and asks for your order without any further ado, perhaps _because_ of the way that you’d approached and you notice that _he_ is quite attractive in his own right. 

“I’ll have a Martini- _wait,”_ you call the bar man back to you as he begins to move off again. He looks at you enquiringly. “It needs to be composed in a certain way.” You are a little embarrassed by your specific demand, but there can be no drink _more_ fitting considering who you have just seen. “Three measures of Gordon’s,” you take a little breath as the memory of how the man had ordered the drink the _first_ time you’d ever met him comes back to you, the re-collection of Q and Eve Moneypenny-neither of whom you know that well, but who had respected you and you'd come to respect _more_ in turn that night-talking in the background fuelling it more fluidly, “One of vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet. Shake it over ice and add a thin slice of lemon peel if you don’t mind.” 

The bar man looks a bit baffled by your request, but you smile at him sweetly to send him on his way, your jaw aching a little bit because you have not done such a thing genuinely to anyone in a while, forgotten how to _flirt_ when it is not merely acting.

You smell the musky scent of him first, then hear the shuffle of his clothing as he settles himself on the bar stool that is beside you. “I’ll have the same,” his voice is exactly the way that you remember it. Pleasant, but with an edge to it. You feel those blue eyes-each one of them cut like the glass that you will shortly be drinking from-glance over you curiously. Your pulse picks up, but you try and stare dead ahead. You don’t _want_ to look at the crisp white shirt, the dark tie, the braces and gun that is surely as ready as ever, concealed beneath the shadow of a dark jacket. You don’t _want_ to wonder what has changed for him since the pair of you have last met. You don’t _want_ to see the nicks on his face, let _alone_ the new cuts that will surely be upon his body. You don’t _want_ to become soft and vulnerable with him. You want to remain hardened. You don’t want to _yield._ As your drink finally arrives in front of you, you just want to focus on what you have known ever since you had laid eyes on him here and wear that same fact like a talisman around your neck. For in that moment that fact is the _only_ thing, which will protect you. That fact is that James Bond has been sent to kill you tonight.


	2. Sole Cover

It is kind of _hard_ to keep focused on the idea that the man next to you has been sent to assassinate you, however, when he comes out with things like, “You better add a pink champagne to that.”

“Certainly sir,” the bar man takes the addition to the order in his stride, perhaps _used_ to his expectations being subverted that night. 

Your eyebrows, however, flit upwards and you find yourself _looking_ at James Bond, before you realize that you’ve just _broken_ the rules that you’ve set yourself. “Pink champagne?” you question him, thinking that you might as well go along with it now. 

“That would be _mine,”_ the blonde says possessively from behind you, letting the pair of you know that she can _hear_ you both. You think that she must have bat ears and are not _sure_ that she means the drink alone. Unbeknownst to you she doesn’t mean _James_ either, but you. James and you turn ever so slightly to look at her. Not as distracted by James any more you recognize her as the receptionist who had been on duty earlier. James must be working on something. Probably the location of your room and that of your _husband’s,_ you remind yourself. 

“Does she _know_ that you’re using her?” You turn back to the bar coolly and reach for your clutch purse. 

“I'm paying, and no.” James attracts the bar man’s attention. 

You fiddle with your clutch purse for a moment and then lay it flat down on the bar again. “How chivalrous of you to buy a drink for someone that you are about to kill,” you say in a low, sarcastic tone so that only James can hear you. “Or is this one on the British government?” your tone lifts a little bit as the bar man moves on again. 

“What do _you_ think?” James chinks your glasses together, before he confesses, “Actually, it’s a bit more complicated than that…” If only you knew it was _more_ like the other way around and that she’s using _him,_ targeting _him_ in the dining hall because she knows that he will lead her to you. 

You let out a bit of a snort, as you lower your glass. “It always is with you.” He allows himself a small smile, but it is too short-lived when you tell him, “You _need_ to let me do this James.” You look straight ahead of you and try and remain focused on the tasks that are in front of you that night. “We both _know_ why you are here,” your voice almost quivers and something clenches in James’s jaw, “But I'm sure that you can understand why _I_ am as well.” 

“Is it because of the affairs?” he keeps his voice low. “Why you want him dead?”

You think about it for a moment, before you decide to throw his earlier words back in his face when you tell him, “It’s a little more complicated than that.” He doesn’t look happy at the thing, but you have already concluded that you’d prefer to keep him at a _distance_ if you can. 

“And if our interests align?” He’s looking at you seriously when your eyes go to him. Your heart had filled with a small _hope_ initially when you’d heard his words, but when you look at him again-at the cold, calculated stance that you imagine his face _always_ takes on when he is trying to get the job done-you are reminded of who he is and his _loyalty_ to the Service. You’ll probably be dead by the morning if you trust him…if you trust _any_ of them. Mallory must have sent him after all. No, you’d been right about this at the beginning. It’s something that you have to do _alone._

“How can they?” you try and mask up your aching heart with a cool façade, before you abandon both _him_ and your drink as you slip off towards the elevator that is across from the reception hall. Your heels clack against the pretty mosaic that is on the floor as you do such a thing, before you come to stand in between the two potted plants that frame the elevator. 

‘Did it ever occur to you that I might want your husband dead _too?_ That I don’t think you should _die_ because of what other people think?’ You might miss James’s thoughts of frustration, but you _don’t_ miss the hurried movement behind you, the sloshing noise of a drink, a feminine curse of surprise, some low words and then someone walking at a rapid pace, drawing closer and closer to you all the while. Your hand twitches towards the holster on your thigh in a reflex action, before you remember that you have left your gun in your hotel room. You reassure yourself with the fact that you’re pretty sure who it is. 

Sure enough you’ve barely taken a measured step into the elevator when you are being swung around-your shoulder nearly coming free from its socket and your back slamming against the cold metal, as hands pin you there. Short on defences you lift your knee up instinctively-

“Oh no you don’t. I’ve had _that_ move before.” James struggles with you a little, but thankfully the memory that relates to his words disarms you enough and you begin to lower your leg, doing so _further_ when, over his shoulder, and as the elevator door begins to close, you see the receptionist-the woman he’d been with-staring at the pair of you. She meets your eyes as she talks into a mobile phone.

“Not the way that I'm sure you would have _wanted_ to meet the new 00.” Your head jerks towards James in surprise to make sure that he’d meant the receptionist with his dry comment. His hands shift upon you and you breathe sharply.

“You mean”-

“This entire place is _full_ of agents, both C.I.A _and_ ours,” he murmurs into your ear, before he nips at its lobe. You gasp a little, before you push against him. His hand snakes down to your thigh. “The only member of the public is your husband and his latest side-piece and _you’re_ not even carrying.” He lets go of you now and takes a step back. His face looks almost disgusted with you.

“But _why”_ -your head spins for a moment-“They don’t think you’ll get the job done,” you finally come to understand. “And it’s too much of a risk and an embarrassment to chance things with members of the public just outside”-

“Oh, you _don’t_ think? A shoot-out between a scorned 00 and her criminal husband-what could _possibly_ go wrong?” he asks you sarcastically. 

“This has nothing to do with me being scorned,” you tell him, “This is self-preservation. Just like _this_ will be.” Your eyes darken and you lift your knee up threateningly again. 

James lets out a bit of an impatient growl and rushes forwards, pinning your wrists to the wall of the elevator. “People think that you’ve gone _rogue,_ ” he hisses, his warm breath fanning your face.

“Well, I barely trust Mallory either and I'm surprised that _you_ do. He’s only just arrived on the scene”-

“I'm not taking about M, F/N, though because of what other people think he’s been pressurized to send me and the latest recruit after you.” You look dubious about that being the reason, so he goes on, “Moneypenny trusts him.” You hesitate. You may not know her very well, but during the time you'd met her Moneypenny had made it _clear_ that she wasn't going to go along with what Mallory wanted her to unless _she'd_ also thought it was the right thing to do _herself_ and that she was prepared to modify her actions accordingly. “You were out of London when he got shot protecting our old boss. You’re not aware of everything that happened.” Something flickers in James’s eyes and you know that he’s thinking of the _old_ M. You’d both had a good relationship with her and even when it hadn’t always been plain-sailing you’d _known_ that she’d been trying to make the right call and that she’d been on your side at the end of the day. “There’s more to him than might first appear. If you knew his _history”-_

“I know that he once did fieldwork”- you say with a bit of a sigh if _that_ is what James is getting at. 

“He was a prisoner of war at the hands of the IRA and he didn’t give any information away,” he hopes that might appeal to you, as when you’d been injured by your husband _you_ hadn’t given anything away either. “Right now he’s got an entire team after your husband, tracking him, wanting to bring him in. The man’s trafficking in drugs, women _and_ information. M wants him _badly.”_

“And if he gets him? What if he escapes? Or when he is eventually set free, as he _surely_ will be? People _never_ get the sentences that they deserve to these days.” You struggle a little with him, his knee going in between your legs to ground you both, before you desist when he stares at you maddeningly. “You _know_ that he’s not going to let me live James. I only married him when my cover was blown and it seemed like my only way out." A muscle on James’s cheek flickers at the reminder of what had happened, your identity being leaked being the one cross over between his case at the time and yours. "You _know_ that I don’t love him. Didn't I tell you that before?” Something passes between you now and his hold on you loosens ever so slightly. “But he nearly killed me on our supposed honeymoon because he _knew_ which side I was on really and I barely got back to London alive. He'll do something if I let him fester and then I'll be dead,” you lower your voice into a desperate whisper, “I _have_ to kill him, before _he_ kills me. This might not be about the affairs that he’s been having, but it’s _still_ personal. I thought you’d understand that sometimes it can go that way.” You throw him off you finally because he allows you to, stepping back and looking conflicted about the mention of the woman you _know_ exists somewhere in his history. 

“And how do you think that you’re going to do that with every agent that’s here, apart from me, trying to clear a path so that the _new_ 00 can get to you?” he tries to change the topic away from her. 

You look at him grudgingly. “Guess I’ll have to keep you around then.” The elevator doors open, but James and you just look at one another, the intensity burning between you and your eyes softening ever so slightly at the quirk of his lips. You sense in that moment that you’ll have to take the chance and trust James if you have any hope of getting out of the hotel alive.

Still considering the thought you smile as you brush past him and step out of the elevator. 

The skin momentarily crinkles beneath his eyes he follows you, looking around as he does such a thing and taking in the long corridor and its exits. His body remains half-turned towards yours protectively, but he doesn’t talk and it gives you time to think, without having to worry about yourself because of all the new information that you possess now. You feel grateful for the thing and you shoot him a bit of a terse smile, which he misses as you reach your hotel room. You open the door easily and slip inside, not switching the light on and leaving the door ajar.

“Open doors usually lead me to trouble,” he mutters, but still loud enough for you to hear. 

“This one surely will,” you quip over your shoulder, before you face the front again.

“Don’t I know it,” he says.

Your breath hitches in your chest when you pick up on the stealthy pad of him entering, the door softly being closed again and then the rustle of his clothing as he approaches. You _feel_ the warmth of his breath fluttering upon the back of your neck. You approach the bed, as if his breathing has carried you to that place and then you reach to switch the lamp on that is beside it on the cabinet, but his hand stops yours. He twists you around and you _taste_ him. You tug him a little closer to you. He cups at your cheeks, his tongue licking insistently at the top of your mouth. You bend out of the kiss to wrestle your heels off and to notice that he has already disposed of his shoes, his feet just covered in black socks. He shrugs his jacket off, whilst you do such a thing and lets it land on the floor. Just before you are about to straighten you glance up to see that his fingers are now going to his faithful Walther PPK, which he begins to remove from his shoulder holster.

Your body tenses at the reminder of the official reason he’s there for that night. “Getting a bit ahead of yourself, aren't you?” you say to try and break the sudden awkward moment that has dawned between you-the gun is practically at your forehead. You twist to sit at the head of the bed instead, your toes brushing along the floor. The black paint on your toenails is peeling. 

“Not at all.” He flips the gun in his hand and catches it, before he lifts the closest pillow up. “Thought we’d skip the foreplay.” He gets ready to place the gun below the pillow. He smiles a little when he sees that, that’s where the gun that you usually use is and seeing that he’s been caught sees fit to nod, “Just like these two.” 

“Reunions all around.” You try and keep the blush steady on your face, but suddenly _shy_ of how much you need the moment that you are about to share together you can barely look at him. 

He is looking at _you_ however and when he slides the gun under the pillow the two weapons are almost _spooning_ and you become fascinated with the sight of them for a moment, before you come out of it enough to see that James is watching you with his eyebrows quirked upward and a soft, boyish smile about his lips, as he lets the pillow slip out of his fingers. 

_“James,”_ you utter, reaching for him now and your bodies collide again, but more gently this time. 

*

Afterwards, and once James and you have soothed some of the pain in one another’s hearts and he has particularly taken care of pre-empting and making up for any bruises that might appear on your back because of his rough handling of you earlier, his thumb strokes absentmindedly against your arm as you doze upon his semi-upright chest. 

Slumped against the pillows of the bed he pecks at your hair, breathing in the scent of your shampoo, before his head turns deliberately to the wall that is opposite the window and which he _knows_ that members of the Service are behind-he’d had an encounter in his own room and he doesn’t expect it to be any different here. That one had been with an agent that he’d never met before and he’d left the body out in the corridor just outside his room like a plate for room service, but hopefully _M_ -who he knows is on their side really, despite your mistrust of him and the fact that he is relatively new to the role-will have been wise enough to send people he can have faith in like Q, but he can’t take any chances and his eyes survey it grimly. He knows that, whoever they are, they will be aware that he _knows_ they are there. He is also aware that they are quite happy to make their presence _felt_ because then, and in that case, if he goes against them then it will be a most deliberate act and one where he has _not_ heeded their warnings, whilst they would have done everything that they could have. As much as the Service is his _home,_ however, they are not right about _everything_ and he reaches around you for his phone in that moment… 

*

You feel yourself carefully being moved and almost _react_ to the thing, before you remember yourself as if a folder of the night’s timeline has been flung against your retinas. You roll away from James, keeping your eyes shut and lifting your hand close to your head and to the pillow where your gun is still waiting for you. You feel James moving back, but sense that his eyes are still on you so you keep perfectly immobile, trying to trick your body into breathing normally. It seems to work for you hear him moving away and getting dressed. A moment later the door opens and shuts, letting in a cool burst of air as it does such a thing. 

You wait a moment, just in case, even though you are pretty sure that James _won’t_ be coming back to the room again and then your eyes flick open. You slide your gun from its hiding place, before you leave it on the bed, whilst you get dressed in more practical dark attire than the dress that you had been wearing earlier and that has money stuffed into its pockets. You tie your hair back and barely check your appearance in the mirror, giving more time to make sure that everything is all right with your weapon, before you head out of there-if James has gone off somewhere then you’ll do this _alone,_ whether it’s the right or wrong thing. You _need_ to get this done. 

You hold the weapon against your thigh as you look around, before you creep down the long corridor, keeping close to the wall, which is a lighter shade of blue than the one that is in your room and almost _white,_ only broken up by the occasional light fixing and black and white framed photographs of the hotel through the eras. Your husband’s room is on the corner. You dart past it initially, intending to go in the nook that is between the room, the elevator and the door for the stairs and just listen for a moment, but nearly gasp out in exclamation when you run headlong into James instead. You drop your gun, which thankfully doesn’t go off, as he twirls you around, pulling your back flush against his chest-you can feel a _twinge_ in your shoulder from earlier-his hand over your mouth, before he angles the other one to hold his _own_ gun against your temple. He uses it as leverage to nudge you back against the wall, kicking your gun aside as he does such a thing. You glare at him in a hostile fashion, but he stares at you meaningfully, before he moves his hand away and also lowers his weapon. “Were you on a scouting trip or are you intending to do this alone after all?”

“Not my fault that you wandered off.”

“I wanted to see what was going on,” he’s exasperated, “Which I _hope_ was what you were there for”- 

“I _need_ to get this done”-

“Don’t be stupid. You can’t do this without me,” he urges, _“Or_ without Q. He’s here. M must have sent him.” He lets that point stick in your mind for a moment. “Had to knock himself out a bit on the flight I think”-you smile at the idea of Q being fearful of flying-“And Moneypenny’s passing on any information that might be useful and covering things back at base. Q’s trying to run a diversion, but if it goes pear-shaped then you’ll still need _me_ to get you out of here”-you open your mouth to protest-“Unless you want to end up like your husband is about to?” He stares at you grimly.

“You have to let _me_ be the one to kill him.”

_“Done.”_ He nods without barely any hesitation, knowing that you’re decided and that even though it _won’t_ make you feel much better in the long-run you can’t be talked out of it. You reach to peel your weapon off the floor. James steps aside when you straighten up. You look at him seriously, before you brush your way past him and go to stand outside the door to your husband’s room. You wait for James to take his place behind you. With both of your weapons ready you kick the door down.

As both James and you storm the room and try to adjust to the dark surroundings you feel a bittersweet pleasure in your gut from hearing your husband splutter awake, having been roused, before he’d been physically ready to, along with the surprised shrieks of his latest conquest. That is until your eyes adjust enough for you to see in fact that the bed is empty-the noises that you’d heard are merely coming from a tape recorder that is on the bedside cabinet-and you swivel your head around to find that your husband is staring at you from behind the drinks cabinet, which is inside the room and opposite the bed. As you see his left hand rising and catch sight of a metallic gleam you yell and turn so that you can push James out of the firing line. His own gun goes off in the process and he manages to, at the last moment, steer it with his other hand, so that the bullet goes to hit your husband in the throat and not you. He curses at what had just happened and your actions in particular. You whip your head around, eyes fixated on your husband. Your gun goes flying on the floor as James tosses his own weapon aside and tries to lunge and restrain your arms. You move forwards, before he can, going towards the hunched figure of the man whose hands itch towards his throat and who you’d once said wedding vows to in a moment of equal desperation to this one. He topples to the floor. You turn him around, whilst James fumbles for the light switch. There is no one else in the room. Your husband must have _known_ that it would only be a matter of time. Maybe he’d _seen_ either James or you. Or maybe the fact is that he just _knows_ you too well…You drop to your knees, before the spluttering body, the blood bubbling up in the open wound and the anger about you not being the one to kill him _fading_ as a new plan comes to your head. 

You throw your hands over your husband’s mouth as James watches. You may not have _dealt_ the fatal blow, but you can quicken its effects. Your husband’s eyes bulge. His legs begin to shake and fight against the force of you holding him down. The bubbles get all the more frequent as his mouth gapes and craves for breath, making a rasping sound. As much as you hate him, you struggle with the thing and yet you can’t bring yourself to lift up your hands either. 

When he sees your shoulders shaking James steps forwards, calling your name softly. “It’s done F/N, it’s over,” he says when you _still_ aren't moving. 

You blink as his words _finally_ come through to you. Look down at your husband’s face without any idea of _when_ you’d looked away from it in the first place. His eyes are fixed upon you, but they are no longer moving. There is no longer any light in them, if there ever was. You let out a shuddery breath. Draw back your hands from him. 

You feel the weight of James’s _own_ upon your shoulders a moment later, before they snake down to under your arms, so that he can lift you up gently. Your entire body trembling, slowly you stand and then you spin around. Instinctively, but with no _real_ idea of what you are doing you clutch at James’s shirt, taking a fistful of it in your palm and studying it for a moment. Your mouth makes silent gasps. James’s hands shift, moving you so that you are facing the same direction that he is and pinned to his warm and cavernous side like a butterfly is to a scrapbook. 

You hear footsteps. James pushes you aside immediately, moves across, bends down, tosses you your gun and then readies his. He is a little in front of you by the time that the ‘receptionist’ walks in. The pair of you tense when she does such a thing, knowing that Q’s efforts must have failed for her to be there. 

She takes in the scene, ignoring the weapons that are being pointed at her. Finally her hazel eyes rake across the pair of you, before they fix on James. “Shame that we can’t bring him in alive,” she nods at your husband, “But then I'm not surprised. M _did_ send me in to clean up your mess after all and I would have gotten here sooner if it wasn’t for your little efforts to stop me.” 

“Have you considered that you don’t know how this works yet? That maybe this is the _way_ that M intended it to be?” James suggests. “He was just tied up”-

“Like I nearly was by Q’s robot friend. I might have been fooled and thought it was room service if we were in Japan, but not here. I sent it back to him with a little extra present for him to disarm”-

“I'm sure he’s thankful, but if I know Q then it probably didn’t occupy him for long. We have somewhere else to be. Excuse us.” He fires at the light fixing that is above her head. It forces her to take cover as part of it dislodges and falls and allows James and you enough of a chance to get out of the room, James grabbing at your hand and ushering you quickly through the door.

You initially make for the elevator, but James pushes you through the heavy door that leads to the stairs instead, encouraging you to go up them instead of down.

You take them at a pace, occasionally stopping briefly to see if you can hear any signs of the ‘receptionist’ following you. She seems to have given you a head start, but you _know_ that she’ll be on your trail soon enough if she’s worth her salt as an agent and she must be as a 00 and so you keep on going.

You _finally_ burst out on to the roof, its outline visible beneath the navy sky-the stars are blocked out by the pollution. The pair of you scan your surroundings, swinging your weapons low, but holding them in a position where you will be ready to fire at a moment’s notice and worrying that you can see things in the shadows. You feel momentarily reassured when you realize that you haven’t, however, and head towards the fire escape with one another. You take one tentative step out on to the metal of it, before you look back at James.

His expression makes you exhale sharply. It is twisted and torn as if he both _wants_ you to flee alone, to buy you some extra time and be your sole cover-the _only_ one that you’ll ever need-and to run away with you. To take it in _turns_ to try and make an honest living for yourselves because neither of you have any clue how. But even though he’s made this sacrifice, you know, at the end of the day that James’s heart belongs to the Service and that it always will, so even though _you_ want that last option as well-

“I better”- you know that you have to say goodbye to him, but barely get the words out when the door to the stairs and inside the hotel slams back revealing the ‘receptionist.’

_“Go!”_ James launches you down the fire escape. You hear a couple of shots being fired and another sounded in return. You try and avoid getting stuck in what is happening, what _James_ might be going through on your behalf, and focus on what _you_ should be doing instead so that you can hopefully get the pair of you out of any immediate danger. 

You run down the fire escape as fast as you can, swinging up and over the last corner of it to save you time and landing cat-like on the ground. As you turn your head this way and that-your nostrils filling with the scent of the city and people grumbling with complaint as they move around you, whilst others stop and look up towards where the shots had rung out from-you hear James beginning to make his way down the fire escape, doing so _much_ more slowly than you had done and conversing with the ‘receptionist,’ before a couple of shots get fired off in further warning. A couple of people on the sidewalk gasp and you encourage them to move away. They do so, giving _you_ a wide-berth as well.

Biting hard down upon your lip you see an old beaten up pick-up truck a little way down the street. Its red colour is almost brown with rust and it is parked close to an alleyway. You jog up to it, heave yourself on to its back, discreetly break its rear window with the help of your gun, which you have put on safety, clear enough glass and then scramble through to its front. You unlock the doors, put your gun back in your thigh holster, trick the truck into starting; maneuver it quickly so that the passenger side is closest to the fire escape and yell, _“James!”_

He swings over the railing, falling from a _much_ greater height than you’d allowed yourself to, but landing just as agilely and then gets into the passenger side, keeping his head down as he does such a thing.

You bomb the truck away, following a yellow taxi into the stream of traffic and making to head towards the airport. You can see the ‘receptionist’ getting in her car in the mirror and trailing after you. Though she is initially a few cars behind you she soon swerves around them and comes up close to you, threatening to ram you, as you go over the Hudson, the bridge’s lights twinkling as if it is amused by the display. 

James, on the case as well, quickly opens his window, before he leans out of it, firing off a couple of shots. The return fire sends the already broken glass of the rear window flying inwards and you shriek and duck a little, feeling the slither of shards in your hair and trying to keep the truck steady so that James can retaliate, using both the window and switching to the other side of his seat in order to shoot through the broken rear window.

He complains, however, when you shoot off away from the mainstream of traffic on to a quieter route and cause him to miss his shot, even though he understands _why_ you have done such a thing.

Before James can complain again you growl, _“James,_ take over. I’ve got some unfinished business to deal with.” Your eyes flick to the mirror.

He glances at you, sees the determination that is on your face and then puts his gun on safety and aside, before he helps you to steady the wheel as you climb back into the rear of the pick-up. 

You flatten yourself as much as possible, readying your gun as the wind caused by the force of you travelling makes your hair loosen in its bindings and stream out behind you.

The ‘receptionist’s’ eyes widen as she takes you in, but then a look of resolve falls across her face and her speed increases as she attempts to shove the pick-up again, laying off the wild shots that she has been taking through her _own_ window and driving with both hands.

Seeing what she is doing James increases his _own_ speed and gives you a better view of the opposing vehicle. Not wasting the chance you have you ground yourself with your knees, prop yourself up a little bit and manage to fire a couple of shots towards the ‘receptionist’s’ car wheels. One of them lands and you see a look of fright and fury upon the ‘receptionist’s’ face as she attempts to control the car, _finally_ having to accept its need to swerve and to crash into the barrier that leads back on to the main highway. You see her throw her hands up into the air, before she slams them back into the wheel again, causing the horn to blare and cover any cussing that might be going on inside the car…

You let out a long breath as the distance gets further and further between you. James slows the truck down a little and calls out your name, asking if you are okay. You put your gun on safety, tuck it away and wriggle back towards the rear window, your fingers _freezing_ and struggling to grip on to anything, before you finally land in the passenger seat. You take in a big gulp of oxygen and begin to process what has just happened. 

“She should _wheely_ have been more careful.” James looks across at you with a bit of a cautious smile about his face and seems _pleased_ when you let out a little breathless snort in spite of yourself. His fingers brush against your knee for a moment, setting your nerve endings alight and then the truck is continuing to speed up the road, ignoring the emergency vehicles that sound in the distance, like the space that James and you will soon have between you. For by the time that you have purchased your ticket at the airport-bribing the woman that you dealt with to lie about your location if she’s asked-he has disappeared, not one for goodbyes after all…

*

As you board the plane you wonder if you will ever see him again-will your old work come after you on the basis that you have gone ‘rogue’ and might spill state secrets? Or will they decide, due to probability, that you will not pose much of a threat and leave you alone? Whatever the case you thank James silently in your head for what he has done for you _this_ time, not being aware that blue eyes, which aren't as cold in that moment, are watching you still. You let out a breath and then disappear inside.


End file.
